


Let Me Be Selfish With Your Body

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Clubbing, Dildos, Getting Together, HP: EWE, Inanimate Objects, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, Panic Attacks, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Switching, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 22:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13491501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: When Blaise gifts Draco a sexual fantasy mirror for his birthday, Draco doesn't think he's actually going touseit.It seems he didn't take his own ridiculous obsession with Potter into account.





	Let Me Be Selfish With Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> This idea hit me in the middle of the day the other day with absolutely no warning and little to no initiating inspiration. I went home and subsequently wrote... basically the whole thing (or at least ~11k of it) in one sitting, then touched it up a bit over the next few days, and here we are! I hope it's as enticing to you as it obviously was to me :')
> 
> Thanks so much to maqicool on tumblr/the drarry discord for the thorough and lovely beta!! <3
> 
> Title modified from Jaymes Young's "Tied Down".

“What the fuck is this?” Draco says, giving Blaise an appalled look as he tears the last bit of wrapping paper off of the long, bulky box Blaise just handed him. It’s the last one of his birthday presents. The others are stacked in a small, neat pile beside him—a cookbook from Greg, who is always trying to convince him that cooking is “ _fun_ ” and “not just for house elves, really, Draco!”; an exotic quill from Pansy, the fifth in a row she’s given him over the years; a bundle of socks from Millie that she swears have defensive spells layered in them, though Draco is personally a bit suspicious—at least they look warm, if nothing else.

And then there’s this… _thing_ that Blaise is trying to foist on him, a box so tall that Draco had to stand to unwrap it. “It’s exactly what it looks like,” Blaise says, grinning from where he’s lounging on one of Draco’s sofas.

Draco looks at the large box again, feeling a dull thud of abject horror as he reads the gaudily colored label. _The Pornographic Purveyor_ , it reads. Below that, there’s a large, glossy photo of a man shown from behind, jeans slung low on his hips. He’s standing in front of a mirror, his shoulder moving in a very obvious wanking motion as the mirror flips through several blurry images of naked bodies moving together—they’re not explicit enough for Draco to tell _exactly_ what they’re doing, but he can get the gist.

“I-I—But—” he splutters out, shaking his head. “Where did you even _get_ this? And _why?_ ”

Blaise, Pansy, and Millie all snort out loud at that. Draco glares at them. He’d always known Greg was his only true friend, because only _true_ friends would give him a fucking break over the sorry state of his love life, for Merlin’s sake—

Except then Draco glances over at Greg, and Greg is obviously holding in a fit of laughter.

So much for true friends.

“There’s a sex shop on Diagon, if you know where to find it,” Blaise tells him. “And as for why… Listen, old pal. We all love you very much.” He pauses, and as the rest of them nod in agreement, Draco gets the overwhelming sense that this is some sort of planned intervention. Bloody hell. “But you’ve been whinging on about not getting laid for _months_ now, and you won’t let me drag you to the club—”

“He won’t go with me either,” Pansy chimes in from on the sofa next to Blaise, tucking one stockinged foot underneath her.

“—Yes, or Pansy,” Blaise continues. “So we’ve been trying to help you get laid for months, now—”

“I haven’t,” Millie cuts in, looking bored.

“Neither have I,” Greg says. “It’s hard enough to get him to cook for himself, innit?”

Draco gives an exasperated sigh and flashes a two-fingered salute to the lot of them. “What’s your point?” he snaps at Blaise.

“Easy, now,” Blaise says, laughter in his eyes. Draco groans and flops back onto the sofa behind him, gesturing for Blaise to carry on. “The point is that this is the next closest thing to getting you laid that I could come up with.”

“Without stooping to paying for a rentboy,” Pansy adds, red lips stretching into a smirk. “That was Blaise’s _first_ idea. Be glad I talked him out of it.”

Draco groans loudly, covering his eyes. “You all are insane. Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”

“Oh come on, Draco,” Pansy says, raising an eyebrow. “You _are_ rather miserable when you’ve gone without a shag for a while, and you know it.”

Draco sighs. He _does_ know it.

But he also knows that there’s really nothing he can do about it, because he’s gone and done the most outlandish, idiotic thing he’s ever done in his life—

He’s fallen in love with Potter.

Potter, who was his rival at Hogwarts practically since Draco first stepped onto the train. Potter, who works five cubicles down in the DMLE, whose throaty laugh Draco has to suffer through hearing on a regular basis while Potter jokes around with the others.

Potter, who found Draco in the corridor having a panic attack six month ago, just after Draco’s quarterly meeting with his probation officer—the officer who fucking hates him, who makes him feel like complete shit whenever Draco has to go in, the one who always threatens Azkaban if Draco isn’t on his best behavior, regardless of the fact that Draco’s _trying_ so fucking hard, fumbling through endless days full of guilt and shame to atone for his sins from five years prior. It’s the reason he’d become an Auror—he’d been determined to fight back, to show everyone that he was more than just Death Eater scum, blindly following his father’s twisted ideals.

But that’s never enough for Officer MacDowell, who locks Draco every three months into his tiny office that’s mere yards from the entrance to the prison cells of Azkaban, the only way out a Portkey back to the Ministry. MacDowell berates him for every little misstep, hurls slurs at him and belittles his family and does everything he can to abuse Draco just short of actually causing him physical pain. And Draco is forced to sit and bear it, lest he lose his temper and _actually_ be tossed to the Dementors.

Draco dreads those visits more than anything. He feels sick for days afterwards, but it’s not bad enough that he wants anyone to see the effect they have on him, not even his friends. He’s stronger than that.

But that day, crumpled in the hallway at the Ministry, he hadn’t been stronger. Not at all. It’d been too fucking much and then he couldn’t breathe and he was alone alone _alone_ , the weight of his own past crushing him because he could never be good enough to atone for it, never—

And Potter had knelt down there next to him in the corridor, even though it was after hours, even though he and Draco never even spoke at that point beyond the occasional curt ‘hello’ on the lift. Potter talked him through the panic, calmed him down, told him he really wasn’t a complete shit even though his past self certainly would’ve said otherwise, and then Potter _held_ him and fucking rubbed his back and Draco had broken, in a way. Potter was just so—

So _good_. With every fibre of his being.

For so long, Draco hated that. He hated it because it _had_ to be fake, it must be—because the alternative is that Draco was just never worthy of being near that much goodness, that Potter turning him down on the Hogwarts Express so many years ago was just a sign that Draco could only hope for so much happiness out of this life.

It’d taken him eleven years to figure out that it was, indeed, the latter. It must be—Potter’s not fake, at least. He’s the realest thing Draco knows, his magic crackling faintly around him in a way Draco doubts he realizes is happening, his eyes brighter than the sun. His expressions are like strings, and Draco is the marionette, always reacting in response—it was anger, for so many years, and then guilt over the war, and now—

And now he sees Potter smiling, and he wants to wrap himself in it like a warm blanket and lie there forever.

All because Potter had been _nice_ to him one fucking time.

What a load of tripe. It kind of makes Draco wonder how things would’ve been if he hadn’t tried to hex Potter in the bathroom in sixth year. But there’s no changing the past—he’d done it, and then he thought for the longest time that Potter really, truly hated him. It wasn’t until he’d gone through Auror training with him that he realized that actually wasn’t the case—Potter accepted his apologies for everything as easily as if Draco had been apologizing for stepping on his foot in a crowded room, and Draco had spent the years after that staring at Potter in wonder, always watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Then came that time in the corridor, where he’d felt so, so alone, crouched down and sobbing where he thought no one could hear him—but Potter had found him, and that was his tipping point into oblivion.

“Why?” he’d bitten out, sitting there in the dim Ministry corridor, staring at Potter with tears staining his cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Y-you don’t care.”

Potter had stared at him with those bright, bright green eyes, worrying at his lip. “That’s not true,” he said quietly, arm slipping around Draco’s shoulders as easily as if they were friends. “And anyway… the panic attacks—I, er. I get them too.”

Draco wonders if he’d be in love with Potter if Potter hadn’t admitted that. Probably. It was a long time coming.

It doesn’t help that ever since that day, Potter’s actually been friendly with him, in the vague way of someone who doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. It feels more like they’re exes than acquaintances, honestly—as if they can’t really function without their rivalry filling up the awkward, vacant space between them.

So, for obvious reasons, Draco can’t tell his friends about any of this. He has too much pride, for one, and also dating Potter is a bloody _terrible_ idea, something that would never happen in a million years. All of his friends, even Greg, would be quick to remind him of that, even though Draco of all people doesn’t need the reminder. He’s miserable enough as it is, knowing that Potter is the last bloody person in the world that he should be dating.

Not to mention that, ever since he’d fallen in love, Draco hasn’t even been able to wank to thoughts of anyone else. He’d tried to pull a bloke once at the club, right after the corridor incident happened, but he ended up having to lie and say he was too drunk to get off, giving the man what was probably a sub-par blowjob and sending him off on his way. Then he lay in bed afterwards and wanked himself raw to thoughts of how it would’ve felt if it was Potter instead, how Potter’s lips and hands would’ve felt roaming over his skin—

He doesn’t try to pull any longer.

“Draco?” Blaise says cautiously, interrupting Draco’s train of thought, and Draco realizes with no small amount of embarrassment that he’s been staring at the package in front of him for almost a solid minute. “Sorry to pick on your love life,” Blaise says, sounding worried. “I didn’t think it was that much of a sore topic.”

Draco blinks and looks around at his friends, all of whom are staring at him in various states of concern. “No, no, it’s fine,” he says quickly, looking at the package again and barely refraining from wrinkling his nose at the lurid picture. He forces himself to give the others an exasperated look. “I’m just sulking, really. But you’re right. It’s been too long since I’ve gotten my leg over anyone. Maybe this’ll help.”

Blaise relaxes then, seeming to take Draco’s excuse at face value, and Draco’s thankful for it. “You better get good use out if it, then,” Blaise says, showing his teeth as it grins. “Don’t even _ask_ how expensive it was.”

“Oh, I’ll try my best,” Draco says. It’s a lie—he has no plans to even open this thing, and he wonders how long he has to keep it before he can pawn it off to someone else.

Pansy’s giving him an odd look, which means she’s close to seeing through his careful, nonchalant façade—she’s good at that. Too good. So Draco sets the large box to the side, Summoning his best tea set to the coffee table in an attempt to distract her.

Thankfully, it works.

xXx

The package sits in the corner of his room for three long weeks. Draco actually forgets about it in the interim—he’s a bit of a workaholic, if he’s truly honest, and if the main reason he spends more time at work is because Potter is more often there than not… well, that’s his own prerogative.

Either way, he rarely has time to bother wanking, let alone fantasize about having a shag. At least, that’s what he tells himself. The truth of the matter is that he’s always fucking terrified of catching himself fantasizing about Potter in ways that he shouldn’t be—it’s too intoxicating, and more than anything, he doesn’t want to somehow delude himself into thinking that Potter could actually _want_ him.

Of course, sometimes the fantasies sneak up on him unawares—like in the middle of the night, in dreams where he’s helpless to stop them, Potter’s face and hands and body filling his mind, trapping him in with phantom touches and the ghost of Potter’s laughter.

Like now.

Draco jolts awake, panting, sitting up in his bed and cursing the intense wave of loneliness that immediately washes over him.

Potter had been right _there_. He’d been there with Draco in bed, touching him and kissing him and stripping Draco bare, and Draco wants it so much he could cry.

He lets out a ragged sigh, giving in and letting his hand drift to his prick, still hard despite the fact that he’s so fucking lonely right now. It’s no matter. His prick can’t tell the difference, it seems, so just this once, he’ll give in to thoughts of Potter, he’ll let himself think of Potter’s laugh and smile and what his hands might feel like on Draco’s body.

It’s too bad he can’t go back to sleep, can’t slip back into his dreams where visions of Potter are at least within his reach—

And then Draco’s eyes alight on the package in the corner of his room.

No.

This… is a very bad idea.

It takes about three seconds for Draco’s resolve to break. There’s no harm in opening the thing, and he doesn’t even know if what he wants is even _possible_ —he’ll just open it so he can read the instructions, he reasons. Nothing more.

Sliding out of bed, he picks up his wand from the bedside table and lights one of the torches. Then he goes to where the box is leaning up against the wall next to his wardrobe, staring at it for a moment.

Fuck. He’s really going to do this, isn’t he?

Scanning the label, he quickly finds the spell to dismantle the packaging and mumbles it out loud, freeing the mirror from its confines. It’s a handsome thing, all intricately carved wood and dark varnish, a bit taller than Draco is, and sturdy—he’s sure Blaise wasn’t at all lying when he implied the thing was expensive.

A scroll is spelled to the top of the mirror, and Draco detaches it, unrolling it the furl of creamy parchment and walking over to the lit torch so he can read the words. He skims over most of it, because really, he’s only looking for one thing—

His mouth goes dry when he sees it.

‘ _Personal Fantasy Fulfillment_ ,’ reads the heading. ‘ _Simply deposit a memory of a desired subject onto the reflective surface—the more vivid, the better—and the mirror will do the rest!_ ’

Even as he keeps telling himself that this is an _awful_ idea, he knows immediately which memory he’s going to use.

He hadn’t meant to walk in on Potter in the showers three months ago, really—Draco had actually been trying his best to avoid such an instance ever since he’d fallen for the git. But that day, he’d just gotten back from an intensely physical raid, and he hates Apparating sweaty—it leaves a weird residue on his skin. He’d been so preoccupied with the soreness of his muscles that he hadn’t really thought anything of it as he stripped his robes off and walked into the communal mens’ Auror showers.

And then he’d subsequently been faced with Potter, alone and naked and wet, soap trailing down his chest and thighs as he leaned into the shower spray. Potter hadn’t noticed Draco at first, and Draco had stood there for half a minute in shock, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Potter’s wet body, hands moving over his skin as he soaped himself up, the firm curve of his arse and his softened cock. For just a few brief seconds, Draco had allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to touch Potter, to walk up to him and press himself against Potter’s slick body, slotting their cocks together and threading his hands into Potter’s wet hair and kissing him senseless—

Potter had looked up, then, and hadn’t even realized that Draco was staring at him—instead, he’d fucking smiled as he said hello, and Draco couldn’t even bring himself say anything back. He was too busy choking on Potter’s kindness, too busy being mortified at the fact that his cock was already twitching with interest.

Instead, he had to scurry to the other end of the showers just in time to hide his swelling prick. Then he stayed there, nearly trembling with want, until long after Potter left.

That memory is about as vivid as it gets.

Fuck. Draco hates how much he wants this, how much he wants to _see_ Potter like that again, even as he glances over at the mirror and feels a thrill run down his spine.

He shouldn’t.

But… he’s going to anyway.

Really, there was no question about it. From the moment he realized what the mirror could do, he was sold. Fucking Blaise, giving him the exact weapon with which to further his obsession—the very opposite of moving on, of starting a relationship with someone new.

He sets the scroll on his bedside table and walks back to the mirror, adjusting his cock in his pants. The mirror surface looks normal enough—it just shows Draco standing there, shirtless, Mark on display and erection obvious even in the dim torchlight.

Of course the next moment, the mirror speaks, making Draco jump in fright. “Well, _hello_ there,” the mirror says, sounding positively lecherous.

“Fuck,” Draco mutters, and he immediately Summons the instructions again because there’s no way he needs this bloody mirror verbally leering at him while he wanks.

“Looking for a muting spell?” the mirror asks.

“You’re damn right I am,” Draco spits out, glaring down at the scroll.

If the mirror had a mouth, Draco gets the sense it would be smirking. “I’m not so sure you want to do that.”

Draco looks up, already frustrated with this bloody thing. “Why?” he snaps.

“Oh, you’ll see,” the mirror says loftily. “But you’ll want to have a go first. Trust me.”

Draco squints at the mirror for a brief moment, and then he scowls, throwing the scroll to the ground and mentally cursing the fake bloody sentience that goes into these things. “Fine,” he says. “But one perverted comment and I’m Silencing you for good.”

The mirror laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t promise that. But I think you’ll like it. Go on.”

Huffing a sigh, Draco puts his wand to his temple, envisioning Potter wet and naked in the shower, taking hold of the memory drawing it out of his head. He drags it over to the mirror surface, and the memory briefly pools at his wandtip before seeming to melt into the mirror, forming a thin glaze over the whole thing that goes transparent and disappears not a moment later.

“Hmm… _interesting_ ,” the mirror says, and Draco glares at it. “Calm your arse. I’ve got to process this.”

“Would you fucking hurry up?” Draco bites out. Truly, he should be sleeping right now, not arguing with a stupid pornographic mirror. He has work in the morning.

“Just give me a minute,” the mirror mutters, sounding annoyed.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Draco’s starting to think this is some sort of sick joke when, ever so slowly, an image starts to appear on the mirror’s surface.

Except what he sees makes him flinch.

He’d expected to see a picture of Potter in the showers, just as he’d been that day, or maybe a vision of Potter wanking at best. He would’ve been happy enough with that, he thinks.

Instead, his heart jumps into his throat as he sees the shadowy outlines, glowing clearer every second, of Potter, standing right behind him in the mirror.

Draco whips his head around. There’s no one there, of course, and he turns back to the mirror, jaw dropping open. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The mirror snickers. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

 _Fuck_. It is. It’s more than he could’ve even hoped for.

Draco’s breath hitches, and slowly, he lets himself look at the fake Potter in the mirror. Most of his body is obscured by Draco’s own, but Draco can see enough to tell that Potter is naked, and his eyes are just as green as Draco remembers them being.

Potter eyes meet his in the reflection, and then he smiles and Draco feels like he might break in two from the jolt of lust that pangs between his hips.

“Fuck,” Draco sighs.

“You _do_ want this,” the mirror says, in Potter’s voice.

Draco startles. “Holy shit— _Potter_ —”

He makes the mistake of turning around again. Potter isn’t there, of course, but the mirror sounds just like Potter, _looks_ just like Potter when he turns to face it again, and Draco knows then that he’s truly and completely fucked.

“You look so hot, Malfoy,” fake Potter breathes, lips moving perfectly along with the voice from the mirror. It’s a voice Draco himself has never heard from Potter before, only imagined—low and throaty and sounding like sex.

Draco whines then, pressing his hand against the base of his cock. He’s close already. He hasn’t wanked in a week and the dream with Potter left him randy and wanting—fuck, he could probably stroke himself off in merely a few seconds, but.

But he wants this to last.

“Take your pants off,” Potter says then, and Draco doesn’t hesitate to do so, watching as they slide down his hips, pooling on his floor, his cock bobbing free.

He’s taking instructions from a fucking _mirror_ and he can’t even begin to care.

“Fuck,” Potter says softly, and then he steps to the side—and now Draco can see _his_ cock, thick and swollen and pink in the flickering torchlight. Draco nearly chokes at the sight. God, if he could only touch—

He barely restrains himself from reaching behind him. There won’t be anything there, he knows, and anyway, seeing Potter like this is almost enough.

“Want to fuck you,” Potter mumbles, and the words are like a lightning bolt to Draco’s cock.

“We—we can’t,” Draco says—he’s already reduced to gasping for breath and he hasn’t even touched himself yet.

Potter actually looks disappointed. “That’s a shame.”

An idea forms in Draco’s mind, and he bites his lip—he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

Fuck it.

He raises his wand, nearly forgotten in his hand, and Summons the one dildo he owns, curved and just a bit thicker than his own cock. Then he takes a deep breath, casting lube and preparation spells—he really hates preparing himself this way because the stretching is very nearly too intense all at once—but he can’t be bothered to reach behind himself at this angle, and besides he thinks he might come if he tried. So he squeezes his eyes shut while the spell eases him open. It’s over in just a few seconds.

Potter’s still there when he opens his eyes. Draco’s glad—he’s still half-afraid Potter will fade away, that there’s some sort of time limit or something. He feels guilty enough as it is, using Potter’s image like this—though it’s really not much more than fantasizing while wanking, it _feels_ like so much more, especially when Potter moves to stand behind him again just as Draco bends over, positioning the dildo at his own arsehole.

Draco takes a deep breath, spelling the dildo to hover there. Then he adds a sticking charm at the mirror to anchor it to the floor, tosses his wand to the carpet, and grabs hold of the edges of the mirror with both hands.

Locking eyes with the image of Potter, Draco slowly pushes himself back onto the dildo, watching in the mirror as Potter’s cock slides into his body.

 _Fuck_.

“Malfoy— _oh_ ,” Potter moans, eyelids fluttering, and Draco wants to cry as he pulls himself forward, pressing back onto the dildo again.

“Fucking Merlin,” Draco mutters, using the mirror for leverage, pulling up on the balls of his feet and pushing back again. It’s not the most comfortable position, but he’s so fucking close already that it barely matters. “Keep… keep talking,” he says quietly, and there’s a hot trickle of shame running down his neck as he fucks himself onto the dildo, stares into the image of Potter’s eyes, and pretends that it’s Potter pushing deep inside him.

“You feel so fucking good,” Potter sighs, and in the mirror, his hands move to Draco’s hips. Draco can’t feel it, but it looks real enough, so he lets himself imagine it _is_ real as he reaches down and finally starts pulling at his cock.

“ _Nngh_ , Potter—that’s… fuck,” he groans, throwing himself into the fantasy. “I’ve—I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Potter smiles in the mirror, looking fond. “Me too,” he says.

Draco’s heart threatens to break, even as he draws closer and closer to orgasm. “You’re lying,” he chokes out, hand stuttering on his cock.

Potter frowns. “Don’t say that,” he says, and then he gasps as Draco gives a particularly vigorous thrust of his hips. “I do want you.”

Draco’s lip trembles. “I—I lied,” he says. “Please stop talking.” It hurts too much to hear these obvious untruths, to stand there knowing that it’s all a product of fancy charmwork and Draco’s own imagination.

Potter shuts his mouth and nods, and then Draco starts stroking himself in earnest because he needs this needs to end. It feels good, but at what fucking price…?

“ _Malfoy_ —oh, fuck—forgot I wasn’t supposed to talk, sorry,” Potter says, looking remorseful, and _fuck_ if that isn’t how Potter would act in real life.

Draco’s nearly hyperventilating, he’s breathing so fast. “It’s fine, Potter,” he mumbles. “Just—make me come.”

“Okay,” Potter says, and he slides an arm around Draco, covering Draco’s hand with his own, moving it over Draco’s cock. Draco’s breath hitches—fuck—and he watches as Potter’s fingers intertwine with his own, perfectly in time with the way he’s stroking himself.

“I’m—I’m close,” he gasps out, driving down on the dildo, trying to hit the right angle—and then he finds it and lets out a loud cry, almost forgetting to keep his eyes open.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Potter says. “F-fuck—yes, Malfoy, come for me—”

“ _Potter_ — _!_ ” Draco cries out, and all at once his orgasm hits, sending waves of pleasure through him that rock him to the bone. In the mirror, Potter’s face contorts, and then he’s groaning too, shudders wracking his body.

“Y-yes, Malfoy—oh fuck—”

Draco thinks he really will cry as he slows the movement of his hand on his cock, shivering through the rest of his orgasm, fingers wet with spunk. He’s shaking as he pulls off of the dildo, listening to Potter’s ragged breaths, eyes tracing Potter’s image in front of him.

He shouldn’t say this.

But this is the only chance he’ll ever get, isn’t it?

Slowly, he opens his mouth, watching as Potter’s eyes blink open, his chest heaving. Draco clears the despair from his throat, his own lip trembling. “I—I love you,” he says, the words tearing out of him, feeling like he’s dangling at the edge of a precipice.

Then Potter’s face splits into a brilliant grin, and Draco wants to scream.

Instead he whirls away from the mirror, tears pricking at his eyes, snatching a spare blanket from the corner and throwing it over the mirror’s surface.

Then he falls back into bed, spelling himself clean as more tears leak out onto his cheeks.

It was too much.

He won’t be doing this again.

xXx

It takes Draco approximately two weeks to change his mind.

In the end, it’s Potter that does it—the real Potter, the one Draco sees every day at work and tries his damned best not to ogle in the corridors.

“Did you finish the report for that kidnapping case?” Potter asks, his voice coming suddenly from behind Draco and making Draco jump in his desk chair.

Draco swivels around to look at him, forcing himself not to react as he takes in Potter, real and in the flesh, leaning his arms on the low wall of Draco’s cubicle. He knows the report Potter’s talking about—it’d been last month’s most exciting case by far. “I finished that weeks ago,” he mutters. “You mean you _haven’t?_ ”

Potter laughs sheepishly. “I, um, might’ve just found it again on my desk today?”

“You’re bloody hopeless,” Draco grouses, but inside he’s delighted because fuck, Potter is _talking_ to him, laughing, smiling. Draco sure hopes his own face isn’t betraying how absolutely besotted he is with the wanker.

“Would you mind lending me your notes?” Potter asks, just as Draco figured he would. Not that he truly minds doing small favors for Potter—not if it gets Potter to smile at him like this.

Draco pretends to be annoyed as he turns to his filing cabinet, pulling open the third drawer down and Summoning the file from the neat rows within. He holds it toward Potter, but pulls it back at the last second. “Don’t you dare lose it,” he threatens sternly.

Potter laughs again, crossing a finger over his chest. “Promise,” he says, and Draco hands him the folder. “Hey, Malfoy…?”

“What?” Draco says, eyeing Potter.

Potter looks speculative as he gazes down at him—as if he’s about to say something important—but all too soon that look fades. “Never mind,” Potter says easily, and Draco lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. “Thanks, Malfoy,” Potter says, waving the file in the air. “I owe you one.”

“Next time, you’ll do your paperwork on time,” Draco chastens, but he allows himself to give Potter a small smile just before Potter turns to leave.

Potter flashes a grin at him as he walks off. Draco lets out a shaky breath, puts his face in his hands and wants and wants and wants.

 

That night, he’s barely just Apparated home from work before he pulls the blanket off the mirror, stripping down naked and breathing Potter’s name, relieved beyond belief when Potter appears behind him just like last time.

“Hi,” the mirror says in Potter’s voice, and then he grins a brilliant grin and Draco nearly chokes on the longing as he slicks up his dildo, fucks himself with it and comes with a broken ‘ _I love you_ ’ on his lips.

 

After that, he uses the mirror more nights than not, despite the fact that every single fucking time he feels guilt rise in him like a sickness. Still, he can’t help returning to the mirror night after night. Work is taxing—tensions are high because they’re due for evaluations soon—and he’s so bloody tired of trying to hide his expression whenever Potter is near him. This helps to take the edge off, at least for brief moments in the safety of his room, and he’s come to crave it nearly as much as he craves seeing Potter in real life.

Although, there’s the unfortunate side effect that he’s started getting erections at the mere sound of Potter’s voice.

This is utterly ridiculous.

And yet Draco can’t stop. He has an addiction, and Potter’s always been his drug of choice. He waits all day for the chance to go home and look into Potter’s eyes again, to pretend Potter’s inside him, to mutter ‘ _I love you’_ s as his breath fogs up the mirror. On the nights he swears off of it, he goes to bed early, trying fruitlessly to shove thoughts of Potter out of his brain.

It never works. Most nights, Potter still comes to him in dreams.

He knows that he can’t go on like this. At some point, he’s going to have to force himself to stop—or worse, Potter will realize how gone on him Draco is, and Draco will simply die of embarrassment.

But his yearning for Potter is unending, and so he pulls out the mirror every other night, breath singing in his lungs as Potter smiles back at him from the surface.

xXx

“You didn’t cover me up last night,” the mirror remarks, speaking in its own voice for a change. “Interesting.”

“I couldn’t be bothered,” Draco says, pausing to look at the mirror as he fastens his robes for work. It’s just him in the mirror now, and Draco feels oddly relieved—he doesn’t think he could bear facing his obsession with Potter first thing in the morning.

“When are you going to tell him?” the mirror asks.

Draco stares at it. “What do you mean?”

“That you’re in love with him, of course,” the mirror says, and a brief burst of adrenaline shoots through Draco’s veins as he gapes at it in horror.

“I—I’m not. I mean. I’m not going to tell him,” Draco says brusquely, and then before the mirror can say anything more, he turns on his heel in a huff and strides out of the room.

 

In hindsight, though, the whole day ended up feeling a little off-kilter, didn’t it? He was out of his favorite tea in the break room, which wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but he’d also managed to get behind on his paperwork, and to make matters worse, Potter was in the cubicle across from him working on a case for hours. It took every inch of Draco’s willpower not to simply sit and stare at Potter all day.

Most of all, he’d just felt off the whole time, even as he went through the motions of his job—the job he normally rather enjoys.

He should’ve known something was about to change.

It’s late, and he’s stepping into an empty lift, about to head up to the Atrium so he can Apparate home for the day. Then he hears Potter’s voice.

“Hold the lift!” Potter calls, and Draco thankfully has a brief moment to collect himself before Potter comes running around the corner, dashing into the lift with him. “Thanks,” Potter says, cheeks pink from the brief exertion.

Draco nods curtly, not trusting himself to say anything as the lift starts to move. Tonight will definitely be a mirror night, he thinks. No doubt about it.

He fights the urge to close his eyes, to pretend Potter’s not _right_ _there_ next to him. Draco could reach out and touch him if he really wanted to, but where would that get him? A look of disgust, probably.

And then there’s a loud clanking noise, and the lift grinds to a stop.

“Fuck,” Draco mumbles, looking around the lift. “What was that?”

The announcer voice chimes on a second later. “Attention. Unfortunately, there has been an error in lift services, and maintenance has been notified. Please wait patiently while our maintenance wizards repair the problem. Thank you.”

Draco groans, because of _course_ this would happen. Life just loves to torture him, dangling the things he wants most in front of his face just before snatching them away.

But he has to act normal, so he opens his mouth, turning to Potter and says, “Well, that’s bloody annoying…”

He trails off when he realizes that Potter’s gone very, very pale.

“Potter?” Draco says, brow furrowing in alarm.

“I—I, er. S-sorry,” Potter says, and he’s starting to shake a little bit. Fuck, he’s about to panic, isn’t he?

“It’s fine,” Draco says, feeling panicky himself as he fights to keep his voice calm. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s—I don’t, um, like small spaces? It’s—it’s fine normally, but—but not for a r-really long time, and—fuck.” Potter clamps his mouth shut, eyes darting around the lift. His breath is starting to come fast, _oh Merlin_.

Draco stares at him, Potter’s words from six months ago flashing through his mind—“ _I get them too_.”

Then Draco takes a deep breath and gets ahold of himself because he of all people should know how to fucking deal with this situation. Trying his best to speak evenly, he asks, “Do you want to sit down?”

Potter nods jerkily. “Er. Y-yeah.”

He doesn’t move, though, even after Draco starts to lower himself down, so Draco stands back up. “Need a hand?”

Potter nods again, reaching out for Draco’s hand, and Draco winces at the vice grip of Potter’s fingers but doesn’t complain. Potter’s _touching_ him.

He hates that that’s nearly all he can think about.

“We’re going to sit down now, okay?” he says, shoving amorous thoughts of Potter far, far away. He waits for Potter’s nod before slowly sitting down, letting Potter bear down on his hand as he follows.

At last, they’re sitting, backs to the lift wall, less than a foot away from each other and Potter’s hand still clutching at Draco’s fingers.

“Take some deep breaths?” Draco suggests, and Potter closes his eyes and shivers a sigh through his nose.

“Sorry,” Potter says again, opening his eyes and taking a deep breath in, then letting it out. He’s gripping Draco’s hand like a lifeline.

“It’s okay,” Draco says, wishing that his heart wasn’t beating quite so fast. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Potter looks nervous at that, and Draco wonders why until Potter inhales shakily and asks, “Could y-you maybe, er, come c-closer?”

Draco’s heart pulses in his chest. Fuck. Wordlessly, he shifts closer, until his shoulder is pressed against Potter’s. “That okay?”

“Yeah,” Potter says. Then he leans into Draco, letting his head drop to Draco’s shoulder, and Draco can’t hold back a faint gasp of wonder. “Sorry,” Potter says, jerking away.

“No,” Draco says quickly. “I was just—a bit surprised.” He wiggles his fingers, and Potter thankfully lets go of his hand—it really was starting to hurt—and then Draco slides his arm around Potter’s shoulders, hoping that it comes across as natural. “Okay?”

Potter nods, face relaxing just a bit as he leans into Draco again. “Sorry for this,” he repeats.

“Stop bloody apologizing,” Draco mutters. “You’ve seen me much worse off, besides.”

“I suppose so,” Potter says, smiling weakly.

They lapse into brief silence, and as the sudden surprise wears off, Draco has the clarity to fully appreciate that Potter is _in his arms_ —and fuck, he shouldn’t be cherishing this moment, but he can’t help it, not with Potter real and warm and solid against him. Potter smells good too, musky and masculine, like eleven years of frustration and dueling and Potter smiling at him over the edge of his cubicle.

Draco closes his eyes and breathes him in, chest constricting so tightly it’s as if he’s the one who’s panicking. He loves him, and he doesn’t want this to end—which is a horrible thought, because Potter’s obviously feeling so poorly, but Draco can’t help it.

Potter’s _here_.

“Can—can we keep talking?” Potter asks, jolting Draco out of his thoughts, and Potter’s breathing is starting to go all wonky again so Draco scrambles quickly for something to say.

“Sure, ah—any plans this weekend?” he asks, and then he curses mentally. Now Potter’s going to tell him about his perfect, charming life, filled with people who love him and no room for Draco—or _worse_ , Potter’s going to say he’s got a date, and Draco’s going to burn to a crisp with jealousy.

Instead of either of those things, Potter merely snorts. “I-I’ve got dinner at the Burrow—er, Ron’s family’s house—on Sunday. Other than that…” He shrugs, shoulder moving against Draco. “Kind of pitiful, h-huh?”

“No,” Draco tells him, feeling a bit pitiful himself. “That’s more than I’ve got on my calendar, so.”

“No plans at all?” Potter asks, and suddenly Draco feels woefully unworthy of this moment.

He wants to be someone that Potter wants to like. He wants to be _desirable_ , wants Potter to look at Draco like Draco looks at him when his head’s turned and no one’s around.

He won’t be desirable if he seems like a lazy, friendless arsehole, will he?

“I… I guess I was thinking about going to the club,” Draco says, even though he was thinking no such thing until right this moment.

“Oh,” Potter says, sounding a bit surprised. Fuck, it _is_ out of character for Draco, isn’t it? “Which one?”

Draco swallows thickly. “Wands and Wizards,” he admits—it’s the only gay club in town, and come to think of it, he’s not even sure Potter knows he’s gay.

He knows for sure that Potter likes it up the arse—he’d certainly heard enough about it when Robertson, the bloke in the cube next to him, had scored a couple of dates with Potter. It’d ended quickly, but Robertson’s Silencing charms are shit enough Draco had been able to hear most of the sordid details—he’d listened with a sort of greedy envy, wishing that _he_ had the chance to date Potter, to take him back to his flat and press him to the mattress and slip inside of him.

He would treat Potter well, really, he would. First off, he wouldn’t suck up to him like Robertson had. He knows by now that Potter hates that. And he knows that Potter’s a bit playful, knows he loves talking to people who make him laugh—he could borrow one of the Elves from the manor to help make Potter dinner, he thinks, because it’s not hard to remember the things Potter had regularly chosen from the table at Hogwarts, and then they could curl up on Draco’s sofa and drink wine and smile at each other over the rims of their glasses.

It’s a pipe dream, he knows. But Potter’s body is solid against his skin, and it’s so fucking hard to make the wanting stop.

At least Potter doesn’t seem surprised by his choice of clubs, giving a small nod next to him. “I went there once,” Potter says. “Was a bit, er, overwhelming by myself, though.”

“Was it?” Draco asks.

“Yeah,” Potter says. “Too many people—I felt all, er, self-conscious without someone to talk to, I suppose.”

Draco fights the urge to snort—he doesn’t get much _talking_ done when he goes to clubs.

There’s an opportunity there, and Draco would be a fool not to take it. Still, he feels like a bit of an arse for even thinking to suggest it—Potter’s vulnerable right now, after all, and all Draco can think about is the best way to get Potter into his bed.

But still, despite the guilt swirling in his stomach, he has to try.

“You could come along, you know,” Draco says, and next to him, Potter stiffens— _fuck_ , he’s misstepped, oh Merlin—but then Potter relaxes again, leaning back into him, and Draco breathes a little easier.

“Maybe,” Potter says, actually sounding sincere. “When were you thinking of going?”

Draco swallows. “Tonight?” he says.

Potter smiles then, and Draco’s stomach feels like it’s twisting up into knots inside him as he gazes back. Potter’s face has regained some of its color, thankfully, and he sounds much calmer than before as he says, “That sounds fun.”

“Come with me, then,” Draco says, hoping he’s not imposing too much on Potter’s free time—no matter how friendly they are in the corridors, they’re nothing more than work colleagues at this point, and Draco has to fight to keep that in mind.

“I’d like that,” Potter says. “If you, er, wouldn’t mind me ruining your fun? I mean. You probably want to go alone…”

“It’s fine,” Draco blurts out quickly—fuck, now he just sounds overeager. “I mean, I go with Blaise all the time,” he adds hurriedly. It’s nearly true—he used to, before Potter at least, so it’s barely even a lie.

“Oh, well then, I suppose I will come along,” Potter says, and that smile is back, his eyes crinkling as he looks at Draco. “If we ever get out of this bloody lift, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Draco says, chuckling softly. “Speaking of… are you okay?”

Potter thinks on it, then nods slowly. “Thanks for—you know,” he says, looking down at where their bodies are touching, and thank fuck Draco had been too worried earlier for his cock to respond to Potter’s warmth.

Which might be a problem now, come to think of it. At least his Auror robes are thick enough that he could shift to hide an erection if need be.

“Of course,” Draco tells Potter. “You did help me, before.”

Potter nods slowly, sighing. “It’s silly of me, isn’t it? The tight spaces…”

“It’s not,” Draco says, because he of people knows that the oddest things can send him hurtling back to when he was seventeen, living in fear every moment of his bloody life—the hissing of a snake, the taste of roast pheasant, the smell of the perfume his aunt used to wear.

“You think?” Potter says. “It’s just. I, er, used to sleep in a cupboard? When I was really small, I mean. But it’s not a big deal,” he tacks on hurriedly as Draco tenses next to him.

“What do you _mean_ —” Draco says, and then he has to stop and calm himself down mid-sentence because he doesn’t want to freak Potter out again. “That’s not _not_ a big deal,” he says, more quietly this time. “Not if it makes you panic like that.”

Potter shrugs. “It’s mostly fine,” he says, sounding a bit rueful. “I can bear it normally. As long as I don’t get stuck like this—it mostly just means I can’t do a lot of surveillance stuff on the job, which is fine.” He grins. “It’s the most boring next to paperwork anyway.”

“Hey,” Draco says, “I _like_ surveillance.” He really does—he usually reads a book or chats with his partner, Lisa, and it’s nice. Lisa’s a good match for him, work-wise—both of them were quite studious in school, although she’s definitely more skilled in defense, which is where he’s most lacking. He makes up for it in offense though, and he appreciates her sharp wit and stable demeanor—as well as the fact that he’s pretty fucking sure she knows he’s head over heels for Potter, and yet she hasn’t said a word.

“You also like paperwork,” Potter accuses, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“ _That_ is false. No one likes paperwork,” Draco corrects.

“Sure,” Potter says, grinning, and he’s about to say something more when there’s another loud clang around them. Slowly, the lift starts moving again, and Potter’s face lights up. “Oh!”

“Thank fuck,” Draco says, letting out a relieved sigh, and they disentangle themselves and stand. He misses touching Potter already.

“So, er,” Potter says, as the lift comes to a stop and they step out into the Atrium. “We’ll go home to change and meet up at the club?”

Draco’s eyes widen. He honestly expected Potter to blow him off the second they walked out of the lift. “Yes, okay,” he says. “See you there?”

Potter nods, smiling, making Draco’s bones feel weak just by looking at him— _Merlin_ —and then they step onto two separate Apparition points, whirling away to their respective homes.

xXx

Draco stands in front of the club, tapping his foot nervously as he waits. He’d realized belatedly that they hadn’t specified a time, and he’s been waiting for ten minutes now, feeling out of place in the thick summer air with his his skin-tight Muggle jeans and thin black V-neck. The music trickles out in loud bursts every time someone opens the door, and Draco yearns to go in and swallow down as much Firewhisky as he can handle. He could deal with being a bit numb right now.

Just as he’s starting to think that Potter’s actually stood him up, he hears a pop at the Apparition point and turns to see Potter striding toward him, wearing tight black trousers that actually fit for once, a dark grey Weird Sisters t-shirt doing nothing to hide his firm biceps.

He looks… really fucking fit, of course. Which Draco allows himself to appreciate for three seconds before forcing himself to stop fucking ogling him—it’s not as if they’re on a _date_ , after all. It’s just a club.

But, oh fuck, what if Potter goes home with someone _else?_ Draco hadn’t even _thought_ of that, but he’s really not sure he could bear it, and suddenly he’s doubting everything as Potter comes to a stop in front of him.

“Sorry I took so long,” Potter says, a little out of breath. “I didn’t have anything to wear—I had to Floo-call Hermione.” He’s flushing a little, which is unfairly attractive—Draco always looks like he’s about to explode when he goes all red.

Draco’s prick twitches in his jeans. Fuck. He hurriedly turns toward the door, gesturing with one hand and saying, “Let’s go in.”

Potter falls in line behind him as they go through the bouncers. Once they’re in, Draco checks to make sure Potter’s still following him, then heads straight to the bar. He orders two double Firewhiskies, waving away the offer of a tab—he doesn’t want to get _too_ pissed, after all—and when the bartender comes back with the drinks, he hands one to Potter.

“Thanks,” Potter shouts over the music, looking a bit surprised as they head toward an empty corner. “You didn’t have to buy me anything.”

Draco waves it off. “Figured you could use a bit of relaxation,” he replies, and Potter nods gratefully, then tips back a swallow of the whisky, wrinkling his nose and gasping. Fuck—Draco really should’ve thought to ask what he wanted. “Sorry,” he mouths, feeling mildly horrified.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Potter says, downing another swallow. “Really. I’ll need it if I want to dance at all.”

Draco nods, trying to calm himself down, and suddenly he thinks of watching Potter awkwardly fumble his way around with Patil during Yule Ball in fourth year. Merlin, he does hope that Potter’s gotten better at dancing since then, although there’s no guarantee he’ll even get to watch Potter do it so the point’s rather moot.

They stand there in the corner near the bar until both of them are done with their drinks. Then Draco Vanishes the cups, looking at Potter with no small amount of uncertainty—what’s going to happen now? Surely Potter won’t _want_ to dance with him—

As if in answer to his thoughts, Potter takes his hand, making Draco’s heart pound as Potter tugs him out into an empty space in the dance floor, dropping his hand but staying close. There’s some remix of a pop song playing, one Draco’s heard enough on the wireless to know he likes, and he starts to sway, letting the music wash over his skin. Thank Merlin the alcohol is starting to wash his anxiety away—maybe he’ll actually be able to enjoy this, instead of second-guessing every move. It helps that Potter seems to have no intentions of leaving him alone.

It’s more than he could’ve hoped for.

Potter starts to dance too, stepping from side-to-side and moving his head to the beat, and he does look a little uncomfortable but he smiles when Draco catches his eye. He holds Draco’s gaze as the song shifts to something with a deeper bass, the sound reverberating through Draco’s bones, and Draco sucks in a breath as Potter keeps staring at him like—

Like he wants him.

A just-barely-not-shirtless man jostles against Potter, pushing him forward, and suddenly their bodies are colliding and Potter’s warm against Draco, like every fantasy he’s ever had but _real_. Draco gasps, looking at Potter, wondering if Potter will move away.

Instead Potter grins, putting his hands on Draco’s hips, and then they’re grinding together and Draco’s getting hard, breath catching in his lungs as Potter holds him there.

And he would feel mortified except that Potter is hard too. Draco can feel his prick through their trousers, and suddenly he can barely breathe with the amount of _want_ blazing in his veins.

“Potter,” he sighs, and he doubts Potter can hear him with the music blaring, but Potter must’ve seen his lips move because he grins.

Then, very slowly, Potter leans in, tilting his head to the side, and presses his lips to Draco’s neck.

Draco fucking melts. He moans unabashedly, reaching up to wrap his arms around Potter’s shoulders, and they’re still moving with the beat but mostly Draco’s pressing his hips up against Potter’s, repeatedly gasping as Potter starts nipping at his neck and collarbone, liquid fire burning in Draco’s groin. It’s so much more than he could have dreamed of, and Draco soaks it in, mind going faintly fuzzy in disbelief, and then his knees buckle and Potter’s basically holding him up, fuck. Potter pulls back, steadying him, and Draco feels a wave of disappointment at the loss before Potter leans forward and puts his lips to Draco’s ear and says, “Wanna go?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Draco says, nodding desperately, and he loathes having to let go of Potter, but it’s oh-so-worth-it as they weave their way out of the club, stepping out into the warm outside air and striding quickly to the Apparition point.

“Let’s go to mine?” Draco says, voice coming out all husky, still scared that Potter might change his mind.

“Sure,” Potter says, and Draco fucking shudders, he’s that gone on the idiot.

He can’t quite bear to look at Potter as Potter takes his arm to Apparate—Potter doesn’t need to know that the reason Draco’s chosen his own flat is so that he can at least smell Potter on his sheets when Potter inevitably leaves afterwards.

As it turns out, they don’t even make it to the bed. Draco Apparates them straight to his room, and then Potter’s on him, biting at the skin of his neck again in a way that Draco’s sure will leave a mark. He doesn’t care. Potter’s _touching_ him, suckling at his skin, hands winding around Draco’s back—and even if it’s just for this moment, Draco can finally stop hiding how much he wants him.

“Fuck, Potter,” Draco sighs, and how many times has he said those words in this room? But even his most vivid mirror fantasies couldn’t compare to the way Potter’s skin is hot beneath his hands when Draco slides them up the back of Potter’s shirt, and the sound of mirror-Potter moaning is really only a faint echo of the way the _real_ Potter sounds when their hips press together again—

Oh, fuck.

The mirror. He’d left it uncovered, hadn’t he? It could say something at any moment, _fuck_ —

Draco whips around to look at the mirror, but the mirror only shows what’s there in the room, mercifully not breathing a word.

Draco lets out a faint gasp of relief.

“What?” Potter says, out of breath. His hair is tousled, and Draco realizes that he must’ve done that, sometime in-between leaving the club and now.

“Nothing,” Draco says, but Potter’s already noticed the mirror, and Draco curses mentally. Thank Merlin Draco always cleans the spunk off of it when he’s done.

“That’s a lovely mirror,” Potter says, stepping over to look at it, and Draco wants to growl with annoyance but he keeps it at bay.

“A gift from Blaise,” he says, crossing to stand next to Potter. And then he lets out a small gasp—he’d had it all wrong, really, how they would look together like this. Potter’s actually nearly his height—Draco always thought he was a bit shorter, but no, they’re nearly even—and Potter’s eyes are greener too, his shoulders a bit more broad.

But surprisingly, the greatest difference is in Draco’s own image. His neck is already starting to purple with marks from Potter’s mouth, and his expression is different, more open.

He looks—content. Usually he feels a lot guiltier when he’s standing in front of the mirror, staring at Potter like this.

Of course, thinking of it starts to make him feel guilty just on principle, and he has the urge to run and hide—except then Potter slides his hands on Draco’s hips and moves to stand behind him, pressing the swell of his prick against Draco’s arse just as Draco always imagined. _Fuck_. Draco nearly chokes with want and need and the desperate love that wants to claw its way out of him, and he presses back against Potter wantonly, gasping.

Potter’s breath is warm at his ear when he asks, “Can I fuck you?”

Draco doesn’t even have to think before he nods. “ _Yes_ ,” he says—it rips out of his throat, really—and suddenly they’re a mess of limbs and clothes and hands skating over skin. Draco’s never been more glad as they undress that his Mark faded so much after the war—and Potter’s already seen it more than once during Auror training, as he has with the faint scars that crisscross over Draco’s bared chest. It’s fine. It’s fine, and Potter _somehow_ still wants him, wants to disrobe him and touch him and put his cock in him, _Merlin_.

“Fuck,” Potter says, when they’re down to their pants, and he catches Draco’s gaze as he slips a finger beneath the waistband of Draco’s, tugging them down over Draco’s cock and letting them drop to the floor. “You’re gorgeous,” Potter breathes, and some unnamable emotion swells in Draco’s chest, making his lip threaten to tremble.

“You’re—you’re _really_ fit,” is all he can think to say, and Potter bursts out laughing as he pulls his pants down.

And Draco would be annoyed that Potter’s laughing at him, but really all he has the eyes for right now is the way Potter’s cock is right in front of him, thick and leaking and curving just a bit to the right. “Can I—?” he asks, breath hitching as he reaches toward Potter, and Potter nods quickly.

Then Draco wraps his fingers around the soft skin of Potter’s cock and strokes it, once, twice, and Potter tips his head back and lets out a moan that sends shivers dancing down Draco’s spine. “Yes, that’s—oh,” Potter sighs, and then he bats Draco’s hand out of the way, flashing him a smile. “Don’t want to come yet,” he says, sounding rueful. “Feels too good.”

“Oh,” Draco says, a sudden thrill running through his spine. “Right.” Mirror-Potter never comes before Draco’s ready, of course, but this is _real_ , and Draco feels strangely even more turned on at the thought that Potter might come within seconds of pressing inside him, shuddering against Draco. Oh, how Draco _wants_ him—“I’ll, um,” Draco says, grabbing his wand and casting his usual lubrication charm. He’s about to add the stretching charm, too, when Potter stops him.

“Let me?” Potter says. “I want to touch you.”

Draco’s breath is ragged as he nods. “Fuck, please,” he says, and then Potter grins at him, nudging for Draco to turn around.

It’s only right, Draco supposes, that he’s leaning up against the mirror, hands gripping at its edges when Potter first presses a slick finger inside him. “ _Nngh_ ,” Draco whimpers, and Potter slows his movement.

“Too fast?” Potter asks.

“Potter, if you don’t keep going I will end you—”

“All right, all right,” Potter says, laughing, and resumes fucking him with one finger, then two. Their eyes meet in the mirror, Draco bent over and leaning against it, Potter with one hand warm and firm on Draco’s shoulder, expression almost predatory as he stares at Draco through the glass.

It’s everything Draco’s wanted for weeks and weeks.

A sudden pang strikes through his chest because he’s _getting_ what he wants, but—but there’s no way this is more than a quick fuck, maybe some sort of comfort mechanism for Potter. It’s not like they talk, not _really_ —at least, not about anything beyond work, and that barely counts.

Potter has two fingers sliding in and out of his arse, but he hasn’t even kissed him. He doesn’t want _Draco_ —he just wants sex, and Draco wants to fall to his knees with the weight of that realization.

But he can’t let Potter know how he’s feeling at any cost, so Draco makes sure his expression doesn’t betray anything before forcing himself to close his eyes, giving in to the feeling of Potter’s fingers inside him.

“You’re so warm,” Potter breathes, and Draco snorts.

“How else would it be?” he asks, and if he sounds a little snippy he hopes Potter doesn’t mind.

Potter makes a strange noise, and Draco opens his eyes again to see him shrug. “I dunno,” Potter says. “I’ve, um. Never done this? I mean, I’ve read about it, but…”

Draco’s eyes flash upward to Potter’s face— _what?_ He’d been so certain… “Wait, but Robertson said… er.” He blushes then, because he’s basically _admitted_ to eavesdropping on Potter’s personal life, but Potter merely chuckles and starts to wriggle a third finger inside him, stretching him and making him gasp.

“Robertson’s an egotistical arsehole on a good day,” Potter mutters. “All bark and no bite, as they say.”

Draco laughs, the truth of it smacking him in the face as he says, “Looks like you have a type.” Then he stills—shit, he’s just implied that _he’s_ Potter’s type and that’s probably not even true—

Potter’s lets out a laugh. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right,” he says, and chuckles again. “Although you’ve a bit of bite in you too, you know. Considering,” he adds, his eyes flicking down to where his fingers are pumping in and out of Draco’s arse.

“ _I_ have bite? Have you seen what _you’ve_ done to my neck? I’ll have to Glamour for days,” Draco teases, feeling a bit like he’s back on solid ground. Banter, he’s used to with Potter—it feels almost like coming home.

And to be quite honest, he’s really pleased that Potter’s left marks on him. He wants to have something to remember this by when it’s over.

“Sorry about that,” Potter says sheepishly. “I didn’t think about it, just—your skin is so soft,” he says, his tone full of admiration, and it’s such an honest compliment that Draco shivers.

He loves Potter. That fact has never been truer than now, Potter’s fingers deep inside him, Draco’s prick hard and ready, the sound of Potter’s laugh in his ears.

Potter will never know, of course. But Draco has this, has Potter’s warm hand on his shoulder and Potter’s breath on his back, and that’s more than Draco ever could’ve dreamed of having before now.

Plus the fact that it seems he’s Potter’s first, at least in some ways. _Merlin_.

Which reminds him—“I’m ready,” he says, and Potter groans behind him. Draco’s _been_ ready, really, but he’d wanted this to last so he let Potter keep going past the point where he’d normally stop. But he wants Potter’s cock in him too, wants to see how it really feels—the dildo is a poor substitute, he’s sure. And Potter’s going to come inside him, isn’t he? _Fuck_.

Potter pulls his fingers free, and Draco gasps at the sudden emptiness, spreads his legs a bit wider, pressing his arse up more as Potter slicks his cock.

“I like this,” Potter says, startling Draco, making him feel warm all over.

“Of course,” Draco says. “Sex is bloody brilliant.”

“No, I mean,” Potter says, gesturing at the mirror. “I like that I can see you.”

Fuck, that’s… Potter _wants_ to see him, and Merlin, it feels good to be wanted.

Of course, then his guilt returns again—Draco’s been seeing Potter in this mirror for ages, after all, practically using images of Potter’s body to get off—but then Potter’s positioning himself behind him, his cock catching at the rim of Draco’s arsehole, and Draco can’t bring himself to care anymore.

“Please,” Draco gasps, hands sweaty as he grips the edges of the mirror.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” Potter says, and then he grips Draco’s hip with one hand and slowly, slowly presses inside him.

“ _Ohh_ ,” Draco moans. Fuck, he feels so, so full—he feels nearly complete, standing like this with Potter inside him, and Potter hasn’t even moved yet.

Usually with mirror-Potter, Draco keeps his eyes open, staring at Potter’s face or his chest or their hips moving together. Now that it’s real—now that he can _feel_ Potter—Draco finally lets his eyes drift shut, lets himself fully experience the sensations of Potter touching him as Potter bottoms out, hips pressing flat against Draco’s arse.

“F-fuck, that’s—you’re brilliant,” Potter says, sounding shaky as he leans down and presses a kiss to Draco’s back.

Draco’s skin tingles, his breath coming heavy, his heart doing somersaults in his chest. “You feel—so g-good,” he rasps out, and Potter moans in response, pulling almost all of the way out before driving inside him again.

Just like that, something snaps, and Potter groans and sets a brutal rhythm that has Draco moaning continuously—Merlin, he really _isn’t_ going to last, neither of them are, not with Potter filling him up just right, slamming into him again and again, oh, _oh_. Draco reaches a hand down to touch his cock and is surprised when his knuckles knock against Potter’s—then Potter pushes his hand away and wraps his own fingers around Draco, still slick with lube, and Draco cries out, bucking his hips forward into Potter’s hand, throat growing hoarse as he groans.

And then, all too fast, they’re both hurtling toward orgasm.

“I’m gonna—I’m—” Potter chokes out, his hand faltering on Draco’s cock, but Draco keeps thrusting his hips into the tight ring of Potter’s fist nonetheless, focusing on the way Potter’s cock feels so fucking good inside him, somehow soft and hard at the same time, sliding into him again and again—

“Fuck!” Draco grits out, and then he’s coming harder than he can ever remember, spilling over Potter’s fingers, his arse spasming frantically around Potter’s cock oh God oh _God_.

“Nngh—Malfoy, that’s— _oh!_ ” Potter says, and then they’re shaking together, rolling their hips as they come, Potter spurting hot and deep inside of Draco.

Draco feels himself come a little undone when Potter finally pulls out and away, as if Potter’s taken hold of a loose thread deep inside him and now is slowly unraveling him, stitch by stitch.

Even so—even with all the hurt Draco’s sure he’ll feel later—it was worth it.

They both stand there, panting, and slowly, Potter grins at him. “Wow,” he breathes, and Draco can’t help but laugh.

“That was—that was really good,” he admits, flushing. “I can’t believe you hadn’t done it before.”

“You made it easy,” Potter tells him, raising a hand briefly as if to reach out to Draco, but then changing his mind and pulling away, grimacing as he looks down at the mess that’s covering his fingers. “Er. Mind if I use your loo?”

Draco nods, feeling the sting of uncertainty start to build in his veins. He wishes Potter had touched him, lube and semen be damned. It would’ve made this feel better. “Down the hall to the right,” he says nonetheless.

He means to go and sit on the bed when Potter leaves, but he can’t bring himself to move, melancholy finally overtaking him. All he can do is shut his eyes and hope that Potter hasn’t already started to regret this.

He’s been standing there for two minutes when, out of nowhere, a voice hisses, “ _Tell him!_ ”

Draco jumps a foot into the air, looking around in blind panic because he’s sure Potter isn’t back yet—and, oh. The mirror. “Merlin, Fuck _off!_ ” he exclaims. He’s too bloody tired for this.

“Oh come _on_ ,” the mirror says. “You’ve literally fucked him in front of me dozens of times. You have to tell him.”

“I do not!” Draco says, glaring at the mirror, and it’s a bit like he’s glaring at his own reflection. “It’s none of your business—you—you’re a fucking _mirror!_ ”

“You better tell him,” the mirror says, “Or I will.”

“Like hell you wi—”

“Tell me what?” Potter says, and Draco stops short.

_Fuck._

He hadn’t even noticed Potter come into the room, and he’s so frazzled that it takes him a moment before realizes what the mirror’s about to do—but the mirror’s already opened its stupid fucking invisible mouth.

“Tell you that he lov—”

Quick as lightning, Draco aims his wand at the mirror and casts, “ _Diffindo!_ ”

Just like that, the mirror surface shatters.

It rains in tiny pieces all over the carpet, and Draco stares down at it, chest heaving. And then he looks up at Potter and realizes that it’s too late.

Potter’s staring at Draco, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He’s most definitely heard the mirror.

He _knows_.

Fuck… no, no—he can’t know, he _can’t_ —

Potter clears his throat. “Is it—is that true?”

Draco can’t say it. He can’t say anything—his mind is a litany of ‘ _no, no, no!_ ’ and he can do nothing but look away, his breath hitching, getting stuck in his throat, and he knows he’s about to fall apart completely but he can at least wait until Potter leaves—

But Potter doesn’t run away, disgust on his face like Draco imagines he would.

Instead, Potter steps forward. Closer. “How long?” Potter asks.

Draco shakes his head—he _can’t do this_ —and Potter steps closer again, closer.

Then Potter reaches out, fingers gentle, and touches Draco’s shaking elbow. “Hey,” Potter says, “It’s okay, it’s just me.”

 _Just_ him. Draco feels a sharp laugh escape his lungs, because he’s _never_ been ‘just Potter’ to him. Draco’s thought about Potter every single day since they first met, in one way or another, and it’s only grown worse as he’s gotten older.

Potter just might be the single most fucking important person to him in this world, and Draco’s gone and ruined it.

Draco feels his face crumple.

“Hey, it’s all right—you don’t have to say anything, don’t worry,” Potter murmurs then. His fingers are still at Draco’s elbow, and Draco feels like he’s going to cry.

He _wants_ to answer Potter, wants him to know that it’s his own bloody fault for acting like he cared, because then at least maybe Potter will understand.

He sucks in a ragged breath. “Six months ago,” he says, voice hoarse. “In the corridor at work.”

“Okay,” Potter says, nodding slowly, and Draco wonders why he’d even asked. They’re still naked, he realizes, and it’s not until Potter gently squeezes his elbow that Draco looks up and realizes Potter’s smiling at him.

Draco’s mouth goes dry. He feels unsteady, teetering dangerously on the edge of despair, but just as he thinks his legs might give way, Potter’s backing him toward the bed, catching him in his arms and holding him safe.

And then Potter leans in and says, “I’ve wanted to do this for bloody _ages_ —” and then he kisses him.

 _Oh_.

Potter’s mouth is soft and pliant against Draco’s, the simple touch sending sparks down his throat and warming him down to his toes, but soon enough the kiss grows deeper, Potter’s tongue slipping into his mouth and twisting against Draco’s own. Draco’s thrown wildly off-balance, because this _can’t_ be happening but it _is_ , and then he really is falling—but Potter catches him, lowering him to the bed they’ve managed to stumble towards, somehow still kissing him, over and over and over.

“Potter,” Draco gasps, letting Potter climb on top of him. He’s almost surprised to find that he’s hardening again, prick twitching against his belly, but then again—it’s _Potter_.

“I’m not very good with words,” Potter says, pressing his mouth against Draco’s cheek, his jaw, his neck, his ear. “And I’m absolute shit at figuring out how I’m feeling.”

Draco nods, barely able to think as Potter assaults him with kisses. He’s fully hard now, gasping as Potter lowers his hips to Draco’s, and Draco lets his legs fall open, pulls his knees up, moans, “ _Please_.”

It feels as natural as breathing when Potter slides inside him again, his eyes half-lidded as he leans down to kiss Draco. Then Potter’s moving, but it’s vastly different from when they’d done this barely half an hour ago—instead of frantic fucking, this is slow and steady, an earth-shattering slide of their bodies together, and it feels like—well, it feels like making love.

And Draco’s horrified to feel tears pricking at his eyes.

“Potter,” he says—a gasp, really—and looks away as the tears start to slip down his cheeks.

Potter stills. “Fuck, sorry, sorry—” He starts to pull out, but Draco’s hands fly to his hips, holding him there.

“Don’t stop,” Draco says, even though he still can’t bring himself to meet Potter’s eyes.

It’s two breaths before Potter says, “Okay,” sounding tentative even he resumes his slow thrusts, and Draco lets his hands fall back to the bed.

He’s surprised when Potter shifts to take one hand, then the other. It’s a bit awkward, Potter leaning on Draco’s hands with them up near his face, but—but Potter’s touching him in every way he possibly could, around him and over him and inside him, and Draco really fucking _loves_ him—

“Look at me?” Potter says, voice steady as he rolls his hips, pressing into Draco, stomach brushing against Draco’s cock with every pass. Draco has no choice but to look at him, to stare up into Potter’s eyes as Potter grins down at him, even as Draco lets out a surprised sob.

“Potter…” Draco sighs, and it feels like a protest even though he’s not sure what he should be protesting anymore. Feeling so fucking vulnerable, maybe. He kind of hates it, except that it’s Potter, and if he can’t be vulnerable with Potter then he can’t be vulnerable with _anyone_.

“Harry,” Potter says, “You can call me Harry now, you know.”

Draco’s lip trembles. “Harry,” he breathes, and Harry nods above him, eyes wide, somehow looking just how Draco feels—scared and hopeful and happy all at the same time.

“I…” Harry says, a small smile on his lips as he stares into Draco’s eyes. “I love you.”

Draco suddenly feels frozen, even as Harry continues to move inside him, insisting on thawing him out with every press of his hips.

But… that can’t be right. It _can’t_ be.

Slowly, Draco shakes his head. “You—you’re lying.”

“No,” Harry says, voice firm, stilling his hips as he looks straight at him. “I really am in love with you. I—I can’t tell you how long it’s been, because like I said—I’m horrid with feelings, but ever since training, it’s like...” He stops, swallowing, and Draco feels like he’s on fire—since _training_ , _Merlin_. “It’s just, I see you around all the time at work,” Harry continues, “and it’s been fucking killing me because I don’t know how to bloody _talk_ to you—because you avoid me sometimes, and half the time I think you hate me, but. But… you don’t, and I—I love you, okay? You’re—you’re wonderful, and I don’t think you really know that.”

 _Salazar_.

He—he loves him.

Harry… Harry _loves_ him.

Draco starts crying in earnest then. He bloody hates getting so fucking _emotional_ like this, but it’s so much to handle all at once. His senses feel overloaded, and all at once it’s almost _too_ much, except then Harry starts kissing the tears away from his cheeks and it’s such a stupid, romantic move that Draco starts laughing.

And then Harry’s kissing him deeply, licking his way into his mouth, and Draco finally lets himself go. He moans loudly, pulling his hands from Harry’s grasp and sliding one into Harry’s hair, tightening his fingers around the curls, moving the other to cling to Harry’s back as Harry starts to fuck into him again, faster now.

This time, Draco hooks his heels around Harry’s thighs, pulling him as close as he can possibly get. The new position has the added bonus of angling Harry toward his prostate, and Draco cries out, clutching at Harry’s hair, his back, his arse. “Please,” Draco says, “Please, Harry.”

“That’s it, baby,” Harry says, and Draco kind of hates pet names but for some reason it sounds so fucking good the way Harry says it. “Come on, come for me. Can you— _oh_ —come like this?”

Draco gives a small, sharp nod, pressing his hips up so that his prick drags against Harry’s stomach, breath coming hard and fast. “Please,” he says again, and then he starts babbling Harry’s name—“Harry, _Harry_ , yes, please, Harry,” over and over, until suddenly he’s shaking through his orgasm, spilling between their bodies—“ _Fuck!_ ”

If last time was an explosion, this time is like the slow shift of Earth’s tectonic plates, fire shooting through Draco’s veins but also swirling deep in his bones like lava, changing him fundamentally as Harry’s body goes taut above him.

“Yes, oh—oh, _Draco!_ ” Harry cries out, and then he’s coming too, body pressed tightly to Draco’s, clutching at him and moaning his name again and again, and the sound of it on Harry’s lips almost makes Draco want to cry again.

He doesn’t. But he keeps watching Harry come, and when Harry shivers to a stop, slowly pulling out of Draco and leaving a trail of wetness down his thigh, Draco reaches up and touches his face.

“I love you,” Draco says, fighting the urge to look away.

Harry looks like he’s just been given the best present of his life. He grins, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe it. “I love you,” he says, voice rough, sparking emotion in Draco’s chest. And then Harry leans down and kisses Draco, again and again, and the slow shift of Draco’s entire world changing finally starts to settle.

When Harry finally rolls off of Draco, he doesn’t go far, instead spooning himself along Draco’s back and holding him tight. “I’m a cuddler, I’ll warn you now,” Harry murmurs against the base of his neck.

“It’s… it’s fine, really. It feels good,” Draco admits. He never would’ve thought of himself as someone who likes cuddling beforehand, but now he’s reveling in Harry’s touch, in the feeling of Harry loving him.

Although the moment is slightly ruined by the fact that he’s got the slickness of lube and semen in several different places. He wrinkles his nose, reaching over to cast a cleaning charm over the both of them. Then he settles back into Harry’s arms, heart pulsing in his chest almost violently as he finally, finally lets himself be happy.

“It’s a shame about the mirror,” Harry says, and Draco’s glad Harry can’t see him when a flush immediately springs onto his face.

“Yeah,” Draco says, hoping against hope that Harry didn’t hear what the mirror was saying before he walked into the room.

“Speaking of which…” Harry says, and oh, _no_. Fuck. “What was that it was saying about—let me remember—‘fucking me in front of it dozens of times’?”

Draco stills, horrified. “I—it…” He shuts his eyes. He really didn’t want to have to admit this, but he supposes lying really won’t get him anywhere in this situation, so he just has to hope Harry won’t mind too much. “It’s a fantasy mirror,” he says quietly. “If you feed it memories, it’ll… it’ll show you things.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes, and then he props himself up on one elbow as Draco turns to look at him. “Like… like what?”

“Like—” Draco swallows uneasily. “Like you fucking me.”

Harry’s eyes grow wide. “You mean… you’ve been fantasizing about me, then?”

Draco swallows thickly. Fuck. “Well, I mean—yes?”

Harry grins suddenly. “Brilliant,” he says, and Draco stares at him in surprise.

“You mean—you mean you don’t mind?” Draco asks.

Harry shakes his head. “Why would I?” he asks. “I like that you were thinking about me.”

“Oh,” Draco says, feeling acutely embarrassed—but it’s okay, at least. Harry isn’t disgusted by him.

Then Harry’s brow furrows in thought. “Wait,” he says, “What memory were you using?”

Well, fuck. Draco’s caught red-handed, isn’t he? He sighs. “Just, er. That time when we were alone in the showers,” he says slowly, expecting Harry to tell him off for spying.

But strangely enough, Harry flushes too.

“What?” Draco asks.

“That, er.” Harry swallows, laughing slightly. “I’m glad that was something you remember, because, er. I dunno if you noticed, but. I sort of wanked over that?”

Draco squints at him, confused. “I mean, so did I, obviously. That’s what the mirror was for.”

“No, no, I mean,” Harry says, shaking his head, hand moving in small circles over Draco’s hip. “I meant I wanked while you were there.”

Draco’s jaw falls open. “No,” he gasps, “Really?”

“Sorry,” Harry says, looking sheepish.

Despite having just fucked— _twice!_ —Draco’s cock twitches against his thigh as he imagines Harry, standing there with him in the showers, throwing furtive looks in Draco’s direction as he pulls himself off— _oh_. “That’s… fuck,” he breathes.

A smile grows slowly on Harry’s face. “Yeah?”

Draco laughs. “Listen, Harry. I’m bloody tired right now. But in the morning…” he says, biting his lip—and Merlin, there’s really going to _be_ a morning, isn’t there? “In the morning, we’re going to fuck again, and you’re going to tell me all about you wanking off in the showers with me, okay?”

Harry laughs and kisses him. “We can do one better,” he says then, grinning mischievously, and Draco wonders what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long, it seems, because just then Harry rolls briefly to the side, picks up his wand, and casts a Reparo on the mirror.

Draco huffs a surprised laugh, watching and feeling a small bit of relief that the spell actually takes. “Thanks, Ha—”

“Well, _that_ was rude of you!” the mirror bursts out, sounding haughty as ever as it interrupts him. “Not you, Potter—” Harry snorts at that—“But _Draco_ —my own owner! I’m _chipped_ now. Don’t you know that it’s bad luck to break mirrors, anyhow? Seven years of it!”

“Stop complaining,” Draco mutters, reaching for his wand so he can spell the blanket over the damn thing. “You’re fixed now, aren’t you?”

“Really, you should be thanking me,” the mirror says.

Draco rolls his eyes at it. “And why would that be?”

“Fantasy fulfillment,” the mirror says, and again, Draco gets the sense that it’s smirking at him. “It’s on the packaging.”

Draco stills. _Wait_. No way. No fucking way.

Slowly, Draco looks between Harry and the mirror.

Then Draco shrugs, picking up his wand and spelling the blanket back over the mirror anyway, possible further wish-fulfillment be damned. The mirror’s a bloody voyeur, and Draco’s going to spend his first night with Harry alone, thank you very much.

And anyway, he’s already gotten his fantasy. Harry’s lying right here beside him, grinning, holding him steady, and Draco’s never loved him more.

xXx

Even after close to six months, Draco still isn’t quite used to waking up with Harry in his bed. It’s always somewhat of a surprise, to blink his eyes open and feel Harry’s hands on him—and Harry’s hands are _always_ on him, which is fine with Draco because absolutely adores the attention.

“Mm,” Draco hums, rolling to face Harry, pressing his face into Harry’s chest and closing his eyes. They’re both naked under the sheets, and Harry’s body feels so warm and lovely against his that Draco thinks he might just fall back asleep.

“Oh, come _on_ , would you two get _up?_ ” The mirror shouts suddenly.

Draco groans, flipping it a two-fingered salute. “Five more minutes,” he yells, and he can hear the mirror grumbling but it shuts up soon after nonetheless.

Except that Harry is more awake now, looking at him with bright eyes and a soft smile. “Hey,” he says, and Draco swallows down the stupid lump of bloody emotion that forms in his throat whenever Harry looks at him like this.

Like he loves him.

“Hi-i,” Draco says, embarrassed to find that his voice cracks.

Harry leans and gives him a soft, close-mouthed kiss, soft and sweet—and then his hand is sliding up the inside of Draco’s thigh, slowly travelling toward Draco’s fading but still prominent morning wood.

“Potter,” Draco says in warning, frowning, and Harry laughs.

“You always call me Potter when you’re trying to tell me off,” he says, and his hand is so close and Draco _wants_ —

“We’ll be late for work,” he complains, even as Harry wraps his fingers around Draco’s cock and Draco’s hips buck helplessly.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying you _don’t_ want to fuck me?”

Draco scowls as his prick twitches in Harry’s hand—brief images of last night flitter through his mind, Harry underneath him, legs spread wide, letting Draco press inside the slick heat of his arse. “That’s unfair,” Draco grumbles, shuddering as Harry starts to wank him faster.

“I never did Scourgify from last night,” Harry says. “I could just sit on your cock right now—”

“Time’s _up!_ ” the mirror shouts loudly, making them both jump.

“Fuck!” Draco shouts, but really, they _have_ to get up—he’s already Snoozed the alarm function three times. He gives Harry a resigned look. “We have to get ready, or else Robards will have our heads.”

“Damn,” Harry says, sounding mournful, his hand slowing on Draco’s cock as he sits up.

Draco sighs, batting Harry’s hand away as he slides out of bed. He already misses the touch, but there’s nothing to be done about it, is there?

Except there is, apparently. “You two are idiots,” the mirror says. “Why don’t you just fuck in the shower?”

Oh. Well, then.

Harry looks at Draco, waggling his eyebrows. “Now that’s an idea.”

“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Draco says to the mirror, leaning in to kiss Harry as Harry gets out of bed and walks past him, already heading to the bathroom.

“Is it for my good looks and charming wit?” the mirror says, and Draco snorts and rolls his eyes. Honestly, he swears that it’s sounding more Slytherin every day. Possibly Blaise did something to it, but Draco can never be sure.

Blaise, oddly enough, wasn’t surprised to hear about his relationship with Harry. None of his friends were, and neither Granger nor Weasley were all that surprised on Harry’s end either, it seems. Which—why the fuck did no one _tell_ them? Draco still feels a bit sulky knowing that their mutual attraction had been so bloody obvious to everyone around them and yet so invisible to each other.

Although, Blaise did give Draco the mirror, which _did_ help in a way—Draco’s not sure he would’ve had the courage to pursue Harry if he didn’t want him quite as badly as he eventually did.

Not to mention all the bloody fantastic sex they’ve had because of it.

Draco stops on his way out of the room, looking the mirror up and down. It looks innocent enough like this, the morning sunlight striping over it from the blinds, but he and Harry have used it for a vast number of vaguely deplorable acts, ranging from using it to show them all sorts of scenarios to just simply watching themselves fuck.

Draco stares at himself in the reflection and smiles. He looks… relaxed, really, and happy. There’s no trace of guilt there, no anxiety that Harry’s only with him because he pities him, like he’d worried incessantly about for the first month they’d been dating. But Harry had taken his time with him, convincing himself that _no_ , he was not Confunded, and this was definitely not just a pity fuck, and, “I love you, Draco, can’t you fucking see it? I _love_ you. That’s not changing anytime soon.”

Draco’s heartbeat still runs fast whenever he thinks of that conversation.

He looks further at his reflection, grinning as he sees he has love bites on his chest. They’re fading, but it won’t be long before Harry adds new ones to his body, making Draco cry out as he marks him as his own. His cock is hard now, ready to press inside Harry, and he steps toward the bathroom—but something stops him.

Slowly, he turns back to the mirror. “Thanks,” he says, albeit a bit reluctantly. He supposes he should say it, though—he’d never quite gotten around to it all those months ago.

The mirror snorts. “ _Finally_.”

“Shut up,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “You’re still an inanimate object.”

The mirror grumbles at that, but then Harry walks into the room, the noise of the shower running coming through the open doorway as he walks behind Draco and slides his arms around Draco’s waist. “Are you coming?” he says, pressing his erection to Draco’s arse, and Draco laughs.

“Yes, I’m coming, you wanker,” Draco says, and then he winks salaciously. “And you will be too, I bet.”

Harry snorts. “Sometime this century, I hope,” he says, and Draco flicks him in the thigh.

He looks at their reflection then. Happiness is shining on both of their faces, clear as day, and it’s a good look for the both of them. Draco hopes it will never end.

He’s thankful every day that the Harry that smiles at him in the reflection, his arms warm around Draco’s waist, is as real as can be.

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on [tumblr](http://alpha-exodus.tumblr.com/)!


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